Lestrade's Lists of Terrible Things
by lillyankh
Summary: All the many things Lestrade has found out that he really, really wishes he never had. Two fics in one. Multiple pairings, all of them slash.
1. Chapter 1

Hello! These two pieces were written for the same prompt - an expansion of Lestrade's List that is mentioned in my fic Pavlov's Remote. You don't have to have read PR for this to make sense, but I wouldn't object to you checking it out.

**Please note: the two chapters here are separate continuities. **I started doing a 5 + 1 and I came up with so many list points that I ended up just making a straight list as well, and the prompter wanted a certain pairing that I hadn't worked into the list, so I put it in the 5 + 1 instead. So you get two fics for the price of one. Hope you enjoy.

* * *

30 Things Lestrade Really, Really Didn't Need To Know, No Really, Please Stop.

1. He is working with someone who has actually _tasted_ brains. As an _experiment._

2. Brains taste like sardines.

3. That guy with the umbrella has the power to make you disappear so thoroughly that your own mother would deny you exist.

4. Lestrade just pissed him off.

5. Sherlock has been solving cases whilst _off his face_. And he's still better than Lestrade.

6. The mobile he's holding had been found in the victim's rectum.

7. There are surveillance bugs in every room in his house. Including the bathroom.

8. There's a reason that door was locked.

9. That wasn't sugar.

10. Anderson _really _likes dinosaurs.

11. Those weird girls who follow Sherlock sometimes have written erotic stories about him.

12. There's a couple with Lestrade in too.

13. Sherlock knows a_ lot_ about fetishes.

14. Those noises he'd heard before were probably Sherlock and John having sex.

15. Having _BDSM_ sex.

16. John is doing something kinky to Sherlock that involves a remote.

17. Sherlock can't stand up right now.

18. That was Sherlock's orgasm noise.

19. Sherlock wants Lestrade to do that again. On purpose.

20. Sherlock has a Ten Point Plan for seducing Lestrade.

21. It's the same plan he used on John.

22. Sherlock has replaced all of Lestrade's DVDs with videos of himself.

23. That's what Sherlock looks like naked.

24. Sherlock is _very _flexible.

25. Sherlock keeps lube in his coat pocket. For emergencies.

26. John is up for a threesome.

27. John and Sherlock have had a threesome _before._

28. With _Moriarty_.

29. But that's OK, because they didn't realise who he was.

30. The hotel they've booked is used to this sort of thing.

...And The One Thing He Totally Did.

1. Sherlock is _very _good at that.


	2. Chapter 2

Aaaand here is the second fill! Remember: SEPARATE CONTINUITIES. Slash pairings all over the place. And whilst some of the points are the same on both lists, it does not mean that the _events_ were the same.

* * *

5 Things Lestrade Really, Really Didn't Need To Know, No Really, Please Stop.

1. There are surveillance bugs in every room in his house. Including the bathroom.

At first, Lestrade had just chalked it up to paranoia. An eerie, unsettling feeling of being watched, humming at the base of his skull like white noise. It wasn't always there, but it would creep up on him at night, when he was alone with a whiskey and bad TV. Once, he had been enjoying a relaxing bath when it struck. He'd tried to ignore it but ended up springing out of the bath and getting dressed quickly, feeling far too exposed. He switched to showers after that.

It wasn't until he'd found Sherlock dismantling a radio at 221b that he realised it wasn't entirely ungrounded.

"What _are_ you doing?" Lestrade asked, forgetting about the complicated murder he'd needed help with.

"Removing Mycroft's surveillance equipment. Honestly, he seems to think I wouldn't find them."

Lestrade baulked. "Your brother bugs your flat?" He'd known the elder Holmes had some kind of high-up position in the Government, but not _that_ high.

"He has this rather irksome idea in his head that I need to be observed at all times. I must admit, he's improving; it took me an entire hour to discover the frequency of these ones. MI:5 should be proud of their latest inventions."

"Sherlock... could your brother have bugged my house too?"

Sherlock didn't even hesitate. "Of course. He likes to keep tabs on everyone around me. I suspect even Anderson will have a phone tap."

Lestrade sat down, fast. "Oh God."

"This distresses you."

"Of course it bloody distresses me! I've just found out I'm living in a spy novel!"

Sherlock sighed. "If it's that much of an issue, you can ask him to remove them."

"What, just like that?"

"Yes."

"You didn't ask him to remove your bugs."

"Obviously, because he wouldn't do it."

"But he'll remove mine?"

Sherlock didn't dignify that with a response, choosing instead to look at Lestrade like he was a particularly brain-damaged slug. Lestrade changed the subject to the case, and left without another word about Mycroft or surveillance.

When he got home, there was a bottle of whiskey and a brand new watch waiting on his kitchen table. A note was attached.

_My most sincere apologies._

_M._

Lestrade balled up the note and threw it at the bin. It missed.

He drank the whiskey anyway.

-x-

2. That wasn't sugar.

Lestrade had conducted so many 'drugs busts' at 221b now that he was surprised Mrs Hudson hadn't just cut him a key to save him the effort. This time, they were after a gold necklace that had mysteriously gone missing from the evidence locker after Sherlock noted it could contain traces of the poison used by their killer. Anderson was taking the top floor and bedroom, Donovan was covering the bathroom and Sherlock's – no, the _spare_ room, Lestrade reminded himself. They both slept in John's room now. He'd had to warn Anderson not to look in the box under the bed, even if it _did_ seem like quite an obvious hiding place.

A muffled whimper above his head told him Anderson had looked anyway. Lestrade made a mental note to book him a therapy session.

Lestrade himself was tackling the kitchen and living room, searching cabinets and jars and even inside books. He braced himself before opening the oven; there could be any number of untold horrors in there.

Sat on the grill was a bag of sugar.

There was probably some totally brilliant explanation for why Sherlock was grilling sugar, but Lestrade couldn't help thinking that maybe this 'drugs bust' would turn up some actual drugs. After all, nobody questions white powder if it's in a Silver Spoon Caster Sugar bag. He pulled the bag out of the oven and tipped some out into his hand. It didn't feel like sugar; it was too light. He brushed his hands off and then took a tiny amount on the tip of his finger, rubbing it onto his gums to check if it made them numb.

Three hours later, he woke up handcuffed to Mrs Hudson's coffee table, wearing a lacy skirt and nothing else. Sherlock had enough video footage to blackmail him for the rest of his life.

Lestrade resolved to never, ever taste anything in that flat again.

-x-

3. There's a reason that door was locked.

Lestrade moaned, letting his head hit his desk as he realised how late it was. He'd had a couple of days leave to recuperate after an incredibly trying case, and the paperwork seemed to resent him for this and came back with a vengeance. He sighed and shifted another heaving folder to the 'Out' pile. Just a few more to do.

He shuffled files around, looking for the photographs from the Kira case. That one had been weird – some vigilante child genius thinking he could take down London's criminals. Sherlock had caught him easily.

The photos weren't there. He must have left them back in the storage cupboard when he'd gone for a stapler. Muttering about leaving sensitive documents lying around, he stood and headed down the stairs.

There were very few lights on and only a skeleton staff still hanging around at this time of night, so Lestrade was surprised to find that the cupboard was locked. Surely everyone knew that he'd need access to stationery at all times? He got through pens like cigarettes. Luckily, he'd had a key to the door ever since Dimmock accidentally locked him in there.

As Lestrade unlocked the cupboard, he thought he could hear rustling, but ignored it. Probably just a box of paperclips falling over.

He was very, very wrong.

He only saw a flash of what was behind that door before he snapped it shut with a strangled "Sorry!", but it would forever be burned into his memory.

_Anderson -_

_Donovan -_

_a raptor suit -_

_surely that wasn't sanitary -_

Lestrade had never been more thankful for the emergency gin he kept in his filing cabinet.

-x-

4. John and Sherlock have had a threesome. With Moriarty.

Lestrade's phone rang as he was driving. He was stopped in traffic, so he answered it and turned on the hands-free.

"Hey John, how can I help?"

"-ing this again." John's voice was muffled and there was a lot of background noise. A pocket call, then.

"John, you've called me. Hang up." John didn't hear him.

"Well, it _was_ your fault." That was Sherlock. Were they arguing?

"My – how on earth was it _my fault?_ You were the one who suggested it!"

Lestrade knew it was rude to eavesdrop, but he was curious now. He turned up the volume on the phone so that he could make out Sherlock's next sentence.

"It _is_ your fault because you allowed him to steal your wallet."

"It's hardly like I just handed it to him. He took it out of my pocket when I was asleep."

"And if you had been awake, he wouldn't have been able to."

"Oh, I'm _sorry, _Sherlock, for doing that terribly human thing of falling asleep after sex."

Wait. Stop. Rewind. _What?_

"If I recall," John continued, "you were in a similar state yourself."

"Hmm. I still maintain that Moriarty had drugged me."

_Moriarty?_

"Oh, give it a rest. You fell asleep, and you know it. And then Moriarty went through my pockets and stole my wallet so he could call me about it later. If you hadn't phoned 'Jim' up in the first place, none of this would have happened!"

"It's not like I knew who he was!" Sherlock was getting angry now. Lestrade was dimly aware that the traffic ahead of him had cleared, but he stared at his phone, unmoving.

"Maybe you could have, I don't know, _deduced_ it? Something like the style of his hair or the colour of his wallpaper giving away that he was your _nemesis? Before_ he fucked us, in all meanings of the word?"

Lestrade wondered if this was what going into shock felt like. A car behind him beeped, not quite bringing him out of his stupor but loud enough to startle.

"What was that?" John said. "Did you hear something?"

Oh God. John was going to find his phone and realise Lestrade had heard the conversation. Lestrade scrabbled to end the call – he'd had enough embarrassment for one day without adding John's humiliation on top of it.

He finally put the car in gear and drove off, wishing he could erase that entire conversation from his memory.

-x-

5. He and Mycroft have been dating. For a year. Without Lestrade realising.

John gestured angrily with his glass. He wasn't drunk, but he was definitely ranting. "And you know what the worst thing is? He doesn't just _think_ he's important. He _is_ important. And he gets off on it!"

Lestrade nodded. "Tell me about it. I've got an irrational fear of black cars now."

"Jesus, don't get me started on the car thing. I hate it. He just swoops down, like... like..."

"Batman."

"Yeah! Like Batman. And that woman, Anthea or Sally or Gertrude or whatever she says her name is, she's like his Robin, always sat there in that car on her Blackberry."

Lestrade frowned. "Wait, who?"

"You know, his assistant. Brunette. Fancy shoes. Attached to her mobile by her thumbs."

Lestrade vaguely remembered seeing a woman like that once or twice when he'd first met Mycroft. "Oh, I think I know who you mean."

"Wait, if you don't get AnSallGer, who do you get? Who picks you up?"

Lestrade was starting to get a bad feeling. "Uh... Mycroft does."

John choked on his beer. "Mycroft? He picks you up _himself?_ Christ, he's only done that to me once, and that was for the 'if you hurt him, I will hunt you down and kill you' talk."

"Somehow I doubt he was using hyperbole there."

John shivered. "Probably not. But you're deflecting. I always thought the whole point of being picked up by his assistant was so that you get more nervous. You know, just sat there in a car, no idea where you're going next, getting nothing from the woman sat beside you. What does he do if he's actually _there_?"

"Um... just sort of... chats."

"You _chat_ with him? What about?"

"Well, you know, work, and how I've been, and what's been going on in his life, that sort of thing." Lestrade can feel himself blushing under John's suspicious gaze.

"That's... weird. Still, I guess it would be creepy in its own way. I always find it disturbing when he asks how my day was. Especially as he probably already knows."

"What, you mean his 1984 act? Is he still doing that to you?"

"Yep. Sherlock does a sweep every few weeks. Doesn't stop him from watching CCTV, though."

"I got him to take out all the bugs in my house a year or so ago."

"Who, Sherlock? There'll be more in there now."

"No, Mycroft. He said he wouldn't do it again."

John gaped. He was definitely looking suspicious now. "He's not spying on you? Are you one of his paid men, then? Do you give him all the info on Sherlock?"

"Not really. I mean, if Sherlock comes up in conversation I don't change the subject, but it's mostly Mycroft who talks about him. I guess he doesn't want the waiters overhearing anything sensitive."

John put his glass down. "Lestrade," he said, voice calm and low and dangerous. "Does Mycroft take you to restaurants?"

"Yes..."

"Nice ones?"

"Well, they're quite posh, yeah. I always thought it was a privacy thing."

There was a pause before John continued. "Lestrade, are you dating Mycroft?"

"What? That's just ridiculous."

But was it? He thought back. Ever since the watch – no, before that, because Sherlock had _known_ Mycroft would be willing to take the bugs out of his home, hadn't he? Mycroft had always been kind in a slightly scary sort of way, and it was true that in the last year he had been taking Lestrade out for dinner on occasion, and there was that spa trip after the Lumas killings, and that fully paid holiday in Spain...

Holy shit.

They _were_ dating.

He made his excuses and bolted out the door, sucking in the cold twilight air and trying not to hyperventilate. He should call Mycroft and demand to know if this was true, and oh God, he had Mycroft's _personal_ number, didn't he? How had he not realised before? He staggered down the street, not really seeing where he was going.

There was a car waiting for him. Of course. He stumbled inside, ready to punch the umbrella-carrying twat for predicting him so well.

Mycroft wasn't there. In his place was that assistant John mentioned, typing away on her Blackberry. She glanced up briefly and nodded towards a briefcase. "It's going to be a long journey. You might want that."

Lestrade opened it up. It was a copy of _The Iron Jackal_, the latest Chris Wooding. Or, it would be the latest. If it was out yet. He was well and truly in it, wasn't he? Ah well. Might as well enjoy the book, at least. It would give him something to think about other than where he was going.

He was fully absorbed in the adventures of the Ketty Jay and crew when the assistant tapped him on the shoulder. "We're here. Just follow the lights."

"Aren't you coming?"

The woman – whatever her name was – smirked. "No, I'll be staying here. Please, he's waiting."

Lestrade took a deep breath and opened the car door. The sight that met him was impressive.

It was a mansion, old and imposing and yet somehow homely, warm light bringing out the vines artfully creeping around the windows. Immaculate flowerbeds bordered the main path, sweet scents dancing in the air. To the side of the house, there was a wooden canopy leading to the back garden. Soft white lights led along the path.

He was doomed. Resigning himself to his fate, he trudged along the path to see what awaited him.

A rose garden, perfectly in bloom, bordering an ornate pond. Tealights floated in the water. At the edge of the pond was a white table laden with food, and sat at that table was Mycroft.

It was like something out of a romance novel.

Gulping, he slowly approached the table. Mycroft was smiling at him, a genuine, warm smile that made things happen in his stomach that he didn't really want to think about. There was something else there, too – was Mycroft nervous? Lestrade waved a little, uncertain, and took his seat.

"Uh...hi."

"Hello, Gregory," Mycroft said, all honey and hidden promises.

It was going to be an interesting evening.

-x-

...And The One Thing He Totally Did.

1. Lestrade isn't as heterosexual as he thought he was.

"Remember, Gregory," Mycroft purred, the predatory glint in his eyes doing things to Lestrade that he hadn't felt since he was a teenager.

"The safeword is _nutella_."


End file.
